Severus is Dead
by FatesMistake
Summary: It's been seven years since the war has ended, and Harry still hasn't let himself mourn the ones lost, especially not the one man who never should have paid that ultimate price. When he starts dreaming about Severus, can he let himself finally grieve, or will he lose himself to his dreams? Rated for language and some minor violence.


Severus is dead. Or is he? It's been 7 years and Harry's been having dreams that are becoming more and more intimate over time. Does it mean something?

Harry sat up in bed, at first unsure what had woken him. He waited, unmoving, holding his breath until his chest burned with the effort. Finally, he heard it again, the light chink of ceramic against ceramic. He moved soundlessly from his bed and across the floor, stepping over the weaker floorboards. As he moved from the room and towards the stairs, he saw the flickering light of a fire, but smelling no smoke concluded that his fireplace had been lit. He continued down the stairs and flinched when he forgot the squeaky fourth step, holding his breath and waiting for some sign that his intruder had been alerted to his wakeful state. When nothing happened for several long moments, he sighed and made his way down the remaining stairs. As he stood in the front hall, he could see into his living room, and indeed a fire had been lit in the hearth. He moved slowly down the carpeted corridor, noting in confusion as he passed the cracked door to his kitchen that the light had been turned on there as well. Now suspicious and confused as to who could have made themselves at home in his heavily warded house, he surged magic to his fingertips and held it there, ready to strike at the intruder if they turned out to be an enemy.

He stepped carefully into the living room, slipping quietly into the shadows so he could slip around the room and see who is guest was before they saw him. Just as he made to sidestep along the wall, a voice he had thought he'd never hear again caused him to stumble.

"Amazing how even in your dreams you cannot sneak flawlessly, Potter. You never were one for subtleties."

Harry caught himself before he crashed into a table holding a priceless vase that someone had gifted him. "S-Snape? What- I'm dreaming?"

"One must assume so," The voice insisted from one of the wing-back chairs Harry had in front of his fireplace. "Why else would I be in your home, nearly impossible to enter without alerting you, and drinking tea in your front room after being dead for seven years?" A shadowed hand moved from the confines of the chair to place one of Harry's teacups on its saucer, which had been resting on the side table.

Harry frowned and walked over slowly. "Alright, you have a fair point…but if this were my dream, how come I can interact? I don't think people normally dream about the dead telling them they are dreaming."

A soft, silky chuckle rumbled from the chair. "No one ever accused you of being normal, Potter. The questions you _should _be asking are why you are dreaming of me at all, and especially you must ask why you seem so frightened to move around the chair and look at me."

"That last one's easy," Harry replied softly, his voice rough with sleep and emotion. "I couldn't save you…Every time I've ever dreamed of you, you look exactly as I last saw you. Sometimes I'd be back in class, or serving detention, or I run into you in the street, even sometimes we're back in those woods where you hid the sword, and as long as I never looked at you, everything was the way it should be. But I always looked in the end, and then we're back in the Shrieking Shack, and no matter how hard I try to stem the blood, nor how many spells I cast, it always ends the same way."

There was silence from the chair before Snape's voice came again. "How very morbid of you, Potter, reliving my death so many times."

Harry scowled, growing angry at the tone that made him feel pathetic for being so consumed by the Potion Master's death. "I believe that it's called trauma, Snape. I was a child, and while I'd seen death before, I'd never watched someone die while I sat by helplessly. I spent years beating myself up over the fact that I couldn't save you!"

More silence from the entity occupying Harry's favorite chair, and then, "Look at me."

Harry was so shocked as to take a step backwards, away from the wing-back. Never had Snape repeated those words from that night, never had he asked of Harry the impossible and yet inevitable thing which would turn dream into nightmare. The Wizarding Savior felt himself begin to panic as he heard weight shifting on the chair, as though the dead professor were about to stand up. He caught a glimpse of the familiar silhouette against the blazing fire before he turned away so quickly that he tripped on the rug, crashing to the floor.

"Potter, you must look at me."

Harry pushed himself to his feet painfully. "I-I can't, I won't…I can't relive that night again…I won't watch you die!" He shouted angrily, his vision blurring as tears formed at the horrible memories bubbling just under the surface. Before he could even register that the man had begun moving behind him, a hand gripped his upper-arm bruisingly and pulled him around. He snapped his eyes shut quickly, before he could glimpse more than a wisp of raven black hair, forcing some of his tears to fall unabated.

Warm breath ghosted over his cheeks, drying the tear tracks even as calloused thumbs swiped gently at his cheekbones. "Look at me." The voice was a whisper of melting chocolate on broken glass, and Harry felt himself giving in before he could protest again.

It took a second for the spots in his eyes to clear after being held shut so tightly, and as more and more of the man's visage became clear, he could feel his panic rising, waiting for the image to change. Finally, his vision cleared completely, and he stared unblinking at the Potions Master who hadn't aged a day since Harry had last seen him, a pale scar over his pulsating carotid marring his otherwise flawless skin. The younger wizard waited for the scar to open, to begin gushing blood as it always had before, and when it did nothing but continue to jump slightly with Snape's pulse, he collapsed into the man's arms, sobs wracking his body as he finally cried for the life of the man, the hero, he had watched die seven years ago.

The final confirmation that this was a dream came as Harry continued to weep for the lost hero and Snape simply sank to the ground and held him, offering what cold comfort there was to be had. Even knowing that he would awake in the morning to find that Snape was still dead, Harry clung to the arm draped across his chest.

"I'm sorry," He choked out when he'd calmed enough to speak. "I didn't know what to do…I couldn't make the bleeding stop. I didn't know how to save you." His voice began to trail softly as he repeated over and over that he was "so, so sorry".

"Be calm, Potter," Snape said, his voice soft but full of authority. "My death was not at your hands, but at the hands of the monster whose snake tore into my flesh." Harry gasped as the image of that moment flashed in his mind. "You have to forgive yourself, and calm down."

Harry struggled to draw air into his burning lungs, forcing himself to take deep, soothing breaths. After he had managed several and his tears had stemmed, he sucked in a few more to be sure. Finally, he looked up into the black eyes. "How can I forgive myself for what happened?" He whispered solemnly.

"By letting yourself grieve, Potter," Snape told him calmly, his tone almost kind in its soothing baritone. "You have ignored your feelings over my death for long enough, and it's time for you to acknowledge them and let them go."

A shaky hand reached up to trail gently over the ragged scar marring the pale throat, and Harry felt Snape shudder under the touch. "How?"

Black eyes sought his. "Suppose that's the answer to the first question I said you should ask?"

Harry stared deep into the onyx orbs, and they sat there on his carpet for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, he began to feel as if he were very far away, his vision blurring and then falling completely dark.

"It was just a dream, Harry, you have to let it go," Hermione insisted, grabbing a stack of books from the counter and moving into the store.

Harry followed. "But it wasn't, Hermione, there were tear tracks on my carpet from where he held me!"

"So you were sleep-walking, then. It's not unheard of for emotional trauma to pull one from their bed, leaving them to enact whatever dream had triggered the severe emotional response," The know-it-all told him plainly, pausing to replace some of the books in her hands on a shelf.

"But what about the bruise, then? Even if your sleep-walking theory explains how I hurt my toe on the carpet, how do you explain the hand-shaped bruise on my arm?" Harry argued, certain that he had caught the girl this time.

Hermione didn't even stutter in her steps as she continued replacing the books in her arms. "I don't know, Harry, you get mobbed by fans all the time, someone probably grabbed you and you just forgot because it wasn't important. It doesn't mean that Snape's alive, and certainly doesn't support this strange idea that the first and only person he would contact would be you, by means of nicking tea from your cupboard and forcing you to deal with his death. Why would he even do that if he wasn't really dead?"

"How should I know? I never understood the motivation behind a lot of things that Snape did. C'mon, Hermione, how can you not even consider the idea? They never found his body, and I thought you were all about having proof?" Harry coaxed.

This made his lifetime friend round on him, apparently fed up with his insanity. "They never found his body because the Shrieking Shack had burned, along with half of Hogsmeade. By the time we got back to it to try to find Snape, there was nothing left but ash, and the wind had carried most of that off, which I know you know. It was a dream, Harry, and nothing more. The anniversary ball is in a few months, and the stress and memories are probably causing these long-buried emotions to boil to the surface. Take some dreamless sleep, and accept that Snape is dead, all right?"

Harry sighed. "Yeah, okay…You're probably right, I have been really stressed lately, with work and the ball. You were always the rational one."

"Thank you." Hermione said proudly. "Now I need you to leave, I've got to rearrange some of the shelves before I open the shop, and I don't want you to get caught by the books."

Harry rolled his eyes as the girl began shooing him towards the front door. "That was one time, Hermione, and I got out of the hospital after a few days."

"You were concussed so bad they thought you might have brain damage, Harry. Now bugger off, I have to open in an hour. Why don't you go tell Ron about your not-a-dream dream?" Hermione said, giving him a final push towards the door.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry muttered. He turned at the door and pecked the girl on the cheek. "Thanks for listening to me ramble, Hermione. You've always been my rock."

"Shoo, Harry. I'll see you at the Weasley's next Tuesday." Harry stepped out of the shop and turned to offer further commiseration, only to find the door closed in his face. He smirked. The brainy Gryffindor had lightened up a lot ever since they'd finished out their NEWT's (a year late, but it was the finishing that mattered) and she'd opened her bookstore _Magicka Arcana_ in the heart of London (an attempt to enlighten Muggles that had a surprisingly large following on both sides), but she would always be Hermione.

Harry started down the sidewalk, avoiding the people he passed with a practiced and unconscious ease, registering in their minds only to be as quickly forgotten. He'd become the foremost authority among the Aurors on silent study, and how to disappear. He'd been with the Corps for only a few years before they assigned him to train the new recruits in subtle combat (decommissioning your enemy before he knew you were there) and silent reconnaissance. No one had been surprised when he'd joined the Auror Corps and wound up a teacher, his friends reminding him that they'd known since Fifth Year that he was destined to teach, and a few joked that his field of study was his personal homage to the greatest spy they'd ever known. As it was, they weren't far from the truth, as Harry had spent hours in a pensieve studying Snape's movements, and how he melted into shadows, before mastering the art of disappearing without actually disappearing.

And of course, no one had been surprised when Hermione had opened her bookstore, her constant campaign for equality and understanding gaining headway within the Ministry as more and more prominent Muggles began making their own appearances within the shop. It had eventually led to the dual act of the Muggle Parliament and Ministry of Magic that would allow minor uses of magic around Muggle's, implemented just the previous year. This had certainly given the students of Hogwarts an easier life, as the Muggle-born were allowed to actually practice over the Summer's now, the same as their Wizard-raised peers. Of course, it was still illegal to perform anything more than lower level spells outside of the home, and there was still angry dissent from some of the Muggles, but it was no worse than any other hate crime now, and was punished as such by the Muggle governments. It _had_ been a surprise when Hermione had opened her shop due to an investment from the twins, who claimed to this day that they'd done it in hopes of one day finding a new source of clientele in the Muggles.

The biggest surprise of the Golden Trio following graduation had been Ron. When he'd gone to Harry with the investment idea of starting a restaurant, Harry had thought his best friend mad, but had agreed to lend him the money on faith that the boy knew what he was doing. As it turned out, the youngest Weasley male had a previously untapped aptitude for knowing instinctively what someone was craving, often when even the customer hadn't known. He had opened a restaurant that more resembled an old diner, and his business had been doing so well that there was talk of expansion, as the client base had grown so much that he sometimes had customers voluntarily waiting for over an hour to be seated. Harry decided to heed Hermione's advice and turned towards Diagon Alley, knowing that there was a stool that (quite literally) had his name on it.

"You're dreaming about Snape again?" Ron asked, leaning on the counter. "I thought you'd let that go?"

Harry shrugged, poking at the chocolate milkshake his friend had brought him before he'd even asked for it. "According to dream-Snape, I haven't allowed myself to properly grieve. Hermione thinks it might be induced by the stress of the upcoming Anniversary Ball."

Ron picked a chip off of a passing plate and grimaced before sending the server carrying it back to the kitchen with orders to make them right. He turned back to Harry. "Yeah, but 'Mione always thinks everything bad is to do with stress. You haven't had any trouble with the ball the last six years, why should this one be different?"

Harry rolled his eyes when the server started to pass them again only to have Ron take the plate of fresh chips and plant it in front of Harry. "It's the big anniversary, Ron. Remember? The Ministry wanted to commemorate the entire Second War, so they decided that it started when Voldemort attacked me in my first year, through Quirrel. After this, the Ministry will hold a ball every seven years, to celebrate my seven year battle with the Dark, and remember those who were lost."

"Oh yeah," The red head murmured, picking a chip off of the plate. "What idiot thought of that?"

The Auror shot his friend a stern look reminiscent of their former Potions Master. The taller wizard knew very well that his own brother, Percy, had thought it up, having been assigned as the new Minister's personal aid and adviser. Ron just grinned back, thinking himself a laugh-riot.

"Anyway, my point sort of stands: why should you be so stressed about the anniversary? You'll probably have to give a speech, then schmooze, and then get your picture taken a bunch of times, same as always. But of course, you'll have your best friends there to make it all a fun and relaxing time, same as always. And even if it wasn't all just business as usual, it's three months from now. You normally don't start freaking out until the day of," Ron pointed out, continuing to snack on Harry's plate as the brunette sipped at his milkshake.

"I was just telling you what Hermione said, Ron. I don't actually know why I've started dreaming about Snape again, if in fact it even was a dream," Harry told him, pushing around his slowly melting treat with his straw.

"How could it not have been a dream?" Ron asked cluelessly.

Harry shrugged, not wanting to rehash all of the strange, out of place things he'd woken up to. "It was different this time. You know how my dreams normally end, with me waking up screaming, drenched in a cold sweat, in the middle of the night. But I woke up this _morning_, and felt like I'd had the best sleep of my life. And it was so real…"

Ron snorted a laugh. "Harry, if you think Snape holding you while you cry about his death is real, then you've got more to worry about than obsessive dreaming."

The Auror frowned at his friend, scowling slightly. "You didn't know him like I did, Ron. When I saw those memories, I saw a side of him that no one ever got to see. He was a good, caring man."

"Are you just saying that because he was in love with your mother?" The Red-haired chef asked, brandishing a chip in Harry's face.

The brunette grabbed the chip, getting dizzy from watching the other man wave it around. "He wasn't, I told you. I only thought he was, because of the context of the memories. Albus' portrait set me straight, after laughing at the idea. He said-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Ron interrupted. "Snape wasn't in love with your mum, he thought of her as his dearest friend, and the reason his Patronus was a deer was because he blamed himself for her death, and because of that his happiest memories revolved around a time when they were still friends. I was only kidding about the being in love thing, Harry, lighten up." Harry ignored his friend in favor of poking at his nearly-finished shake. "Alright, I need to get back to work, Gin still hasn't got the lunch and dinner prep right."

A familiar female voice shouted from the kitchen. "I heard that, Ron, and I'd be doing a lot better if you'd actually try to teach me instead of gabbing all day."

Ron rolled his eyes at Harry and stood up straight. "You're still coming to dinner next week?"

"Of course."

"Good. Come early and maybe you can drill into my baby sister's thick head what the difference between chopping and dicing is. Oh, unless you have to work?"

Harry shook his head, pushing his shake away from him. "Nope, not unless Timms grows a pair. Kingsley says that they have to either find proof he attacked me first, and that I was defending myself, or get the stubborn wretch to confess before they can take me off paid leave. I told him that the idiot was trying to prove he was good at a stealth attack after he failed to pass the exam, but without a little more proof than some grades, they don't have enough to compel him with a truth serum."

"That sucks, Harry, I'm sorry your student is behaving like that. Maybe you can take the position McGonagall's been asking you to take for the last few years, if they can't get this mess cleared up? I know you hate to be idle," Ron demurred.

Harry shrugged. "I've been thinking about it, but I want to talk to Kingsley before I decide anything. I'll catch you later; I actually have a meeting with him in an hour." He stood up and called towards the kitchen. "Later, Ginny!"

The head of the young witch popped up into the plating window. "Bye, Harry; maybe next time you can talk to me so that Ron can be stuck in this godforsaken kitchen shredding vegetables."

Harry left the restaurant just as Ron started in on his sister about cooking being an art form. It was good to see Ginny behaving more like her old self. He felt sure that if Ron hadn't offered her a job and his home after she managed to escape Dean's heavy hand, she might've wound up in a bad place, maybe even returning to the abusive prat that Harry had fortunately imprisoned before one or more of the Weasley's had had to be arrested for murder.

Over the next month and a half, Snape visited twice more, each dream starting the same as it had before, with Harry waking to find the man in his living room. During these dreams, Harry had done most of the talking, any time he asked the man a question that he didn't already know the answer to, he would get silence in response. Luckily, Harry had been able to avoid breaking down again. Dream or not, he felt embarrassed about the man seeing that side of him, that weakness.

"Potter."

Harry shot up in bed, wand in hand as his vision adjusted to the light he called for. He blinked a few times, and when he could see clearly enough, he placed his glasses on his nose, wand still pointed at the dark blur in his brightly lit room. With his glasses properly situated, he noticed that the blur was Snape. Why the hell did his dream insist on him being 'awake' for this? He was exhausted, damn it.

"What?" He rasped, putting his wand in his arm holster and rubbing at his eyes. He looked at the dead Potions Master who was glaring angrily.

"You hid your tea," The older wizard growled. He walked from the room and Harry snorted, knowing the man expected him to follow.

He threw himself back on the bed, waving the lights down to a dimmer setting. He had hidden his tea in an effort to prove Snape was actually visiting his home, not dead, but could see now that it wasn't proof of anything. It'd been two weeks since the last dream, and he couldn't even remember where he'd put the damn tin. Sighing, the Auror tossed his bedclothes off and slid into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. It would just figure that he'd been so exhausted while awake that it was carrying into his dreams. Finally, Snape reappeared in the doorway looking impatient, and Harry smirked at the man, standing and leading him down to the kitchen.

"Accio tea," He muttered when they'd entered the brightly lit room. The tin landed in his palm after pushing its way out of the broom cupboard. A few waves of his wand had the kettle boiling, and then two cups steeping as he carried them into the living room. Snape had yet to speak again, but Harry noticed that his fireplace was ablaze the same as before.

"You look tired," Snape said finally when they had settled into their wing-backs, the man once more commandeering Harry's favorite chair.

"I went to the school today, to speak with Minerva. She's offered me a position as the dueling instructor. She's decided to make it an extra option for the students Fourth Year and up, since Defense has always concentrated more on Dark creatures, and has been pitifully lacking in defense against another witch or wizard. I'll be given leeway to teach the students how to defend against attacks, obviously, but also how to dispatch an attacker quickly before things get out of hand," Harry explained, sipping at his tea. The warmth helped alleviate some of his stiffness. "I wound up being challenged by the current proof of incompetence that she hired as Defense teacher, as he was apparently hoping to be given the position and wanted to prove he could handle it. I'd have won fairly easily, but didn't even get a chance. The rules of combat had been set at no contact, magic only, and the idiot rolled to dodge one of my spells, managing to roll right into me, knocking us both off of the platform. After Poppy released me with orders to rest, I…I, uh, went to the Shack, or what's left of it."

Snape raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I see. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"No," Harry answered bitterly. "I thought if I just saw it, stood in the ruins, maybe I'd find some proof of your death, or at least come to accept it, but it didn't help. I kept telling myself that if I'd spent less time on Defense, maybe I could've learned the spells necessary to save you. I haven't spoken to my friends in a week, because they don't understand my preoccupation with your death. It was so easy for them to move on after the war, and they tend to get angry if I bring it up."

"People heal in their own time, Potter, your friends just don't understand that. They don't understand because for them, the losses were worth it, they weren't at the center of the carnage with the weight of every life and death on their shoulders," Snape told him calmly. "You, however, have been forced into the role of the victorious hero, which means that, consciously or not, you blame yourself for every death that you couldn't stop before said victory."

Harry glared into his tea. "I used to, but I finally realized that there was nothing I could have done. Not only was I a malnourished, wisp of a _child_, but all of the adults who should have been training me, protecting me, were too preoccupied with trying to let me have a 'normal' childhood that they failed my education. A few years ago I presented this fact to Albus' portrait and he didn't even apologize, only told me that everything he did was 'for the greater good'. How could they expect me to fight -to _defeat_ the darkest wizard the Wizarding world had seen- if I was so painfully unprepared? I was never taught what I needed to survive, or how to save _anyone_! My so-called victory was a bullshit win based off of a play on words, and it didn't change the fact that you died uselessly!" He pushed himself from his chair and began pacing in front of his fireplace, feeling too agitated to remain in his seat.

"Are you angry, Potter?"

"Of course I'm angry, Snape!" Harry rounded on the dead spy. "You should have told me! I spent every second after Dumbledore's death believing you were a traitor, hating myself for ever having thought I might've fallen in love with your snarky, irritating, bastardly personality. Voldemort never entered my mind, not once, when I was on the run. It was so ironic, that at a time where I trusted you about as much as I did Voldemort, I was finally able to use your Occlumency lessons. If you had just told me who you were, what you were doing, I might've been able to protect you!"

"So you blame me for my death?" The man asked, still irritatingly calm.

"Yes!" Harry answered angrily. He sighed in frustration. "No, no I don't blame you. There was nothing anyone could've done. Myself excluded, when Voldemort wanted someone dead, they were, by whatever means. Of course, for the longest time, I blamed Hermione for freezing up, because she had _known_ the spells to save you, had had a bezoar, but had choked when she was needed most. It took a long time to forgive her for that."

"And the Dark Lord? Have you forgiven him for his role in my death?"

Harry groaned and rubbed his eyes as he collapsed back into his chair. "No. They all died so needlessly, and what about those like you who suffered? There were _so_ many victims that he simply ended with the Killing Curse, why did so many more have to suffer first? Why did you have to suffer?"

The room was silent as the Potions Master allowed Harry a moment to get control of himself. When the man did speak, it was to change the subject and Harry snorted. "I do believe you called me a bastard whom you might've fallen in love with."

The Wizarding savior smirked. "Well, you were a bastard. In fact, I'm pretty sure that was your intention, was to come off as a bastard. As for falling in love, well, I was sixteen, and even I had to admit you were sexy as hell in a loner 'I hate the world' sort of way. And when you're a teenager, it's pretty easy to mistake physical attraction for real feelings, so I had almost convinced myself I was falling in love with you when…when the Astronomy Tower happened. After that, I had to ask myself why your apparent betrayal was such a surprise, why it had hurt so much." Harry set his tea cup down and sat back, losing himself in the memory. "One of the nights I was sitting watch after Ron had left us, I suddenly realized that you had never been the person we'd accused you of being. Yeah, you were an ass who seemed to get a kick out of singling out Gryffindor's, and me especially, but you were never evil like Ron said. The Slytherin's trusted you implicitly, and you rarely did anything without warrant. Sometimes you would take warrant and go overboard, but you were almost always trying to help. Any time you punished me, it was because I wasn't good enough, often times when even _I_ knew that I wasn't doing my best. There were a number of times when I could have made better choices, or used cunning to succeed, the way the Slytherin's did, but I would let bias get in my way. You spent so much time trying to teach me that there was more than one way to get the desired result, and I was too blind to see it. And I hated myself even more when I realized all of this, because even though I hated you for your betrayal, I missed your twisted means of guiding me. As for falling in love, well, call that foolish Gryffindor sentimentality. It took a long time after that night in the Shack for me to allow myself to admit that I didn't just miss your guidance anymore, I missed you. I regretted never getting a chance to see the man I glimpsed in your memories. I may have actually turned you into something you simply weren't."

"And is that who I am here, in your dreams?" Snape asked.

Harry was curious at the underlying nervousness he sensed in the subconscious projection of his former professor. "No, you're not. The man I imagined you to be was an overly sentimental, kind, and open person…and no matter what I imagine, that is never who you will be. In these dreams, you are…you're different, more understanding and certainly kinder…you're the man I hoped you were, the man I thought you might be with your Slytherins when no one else was looking."

"Are you still angry?"

"Yes," Harry answered, giving a humorless snort. "But I don't have anyone to put the blame on except the bastard who killed you, and he's dead, so I'm choosing to ignore it for now. I doubt I'll ever be able to forgive the Dark Lord for your death, or any of the deaths he caused, but I can't let myself dwell on it."

Snape smirked and held his hand out, gesturing for Harry to take it. Harry did, and found himself pulled from his chair to kneel beside the man's legs. Snape joined him on the carpet, and they sat kneeling before one another. "You are strong, Harry, stronger than most. You have turned the pain and horror of your childhood into a pursuit for the betterment of those around you. As your teacher, I am proud of the man you've become, and am happy to call you friend."

Harry snorted. "Fantastic, I've earned the friendship of my own subconscious." Snape pinched the flesh between his finger and thumb, making Harry flinch back in pain. "Ow, what?"

"I am trying to tell you something, Potter, pay attention," Snape told him sternly. Harry worked to keep a straight face. "Close your eyes." Harry did, still trying not to smile. "Tell me how you feel about my death, now, in this moment."

This forced the smile to disappear, and Harry swallowed. "Sad…" He murmured, keeping his eyes shut. "Devastated? My dreams of you these last two months have made it hard for me to accept that you're really dead, because for what feels like a few hours, you're not. In my head, for this short time I have with you, you're really here and I don't have to miss you. And then when I wake up the thing that keeps me going every day is the idea that maybe I'm not dreaming, maybe you're really here. Without that thought in my head, after coming to know you through these dreams, I don't know that I could get out of bed in the morning. I've _done_ the research, Snape, and I know that, just maybe, one of the reasons these dreams seem so real is because a piece of you really is here, helping to guide me in my grief. And because of that, I know that I've come to know the real you, the man I never got to see when you were alive. Knowing that this is going to end, that I'm never going to really see you again, to find what interests we have in common, your likes and dislikes…Knowing you as I do now, I know that we could have really been something together, as friends or more. But I hate myself a little, because these dreams have allowed me to consider what might've been, and I don't know if I'm grieving that loss or the loss of what was."

"Does it matter?" The sultry voice purred, his thumb rubbing lightly over the back of Harry's hand.

Harry shrugged. "I suppose not, no. Either way, I'm grieving for you. And, in a way, for all of the losses the war caused." He started when cool lips brushed his cheek. When he opened his eyes, he was back in his bed, and the sun shone brightly through the windows. He groaned, and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, frustrated with himself. Getting out of bed, he made the decision that he had to find a way to make this stop, a way to let Severus go, once and for all. He dressed quickly and left the house, never noticing the black lily growing in a pot beside his front stoop.

Harry spent the next month looking over his shoulder. While his dreams of Snape seemed to have come to an end for now, he would occasionally glimpse black eyes, lost in the crowd as quickly as they'd appeared. More often, the hair at the nape of his neck would stand on end, setting his Auror-honed instincts on edge. Twice, he almost attacked people on the streets for approaching him when he'd sensed that same presence watching him. It was at the Ministry ball that things finally came to a head.

Slow, gentle music played lightly through the immense ballroom as Harry weaved in and out of the unrelenting crowd. He'd just given his speech, the same one he'd been asked to give every year since the war ended, and the majority of the crowd wanted to shake his hand and thank him for his sacrifice yet again. Finally, he managed to push through the milling masses, where the glaring eyes of the Weasley clan and his other friends forced the crowd back. He embraced Hermione and Ron warmly.

"You'd think they'd tire of hearing the same speech seven years in a row," He said tiredly.

"It's not the speech they care about, Harry," Hermione pointed out.

Ron grinned and slapped him on the back. "Yeah, they all just want a glimpse of their savior, since you're so seldom seen anywhere else."

"That's because I'm mobbed everywhere I go." Harry sighed. "Why can't they understand that I just want to live out the remainder of my life in peace?"

"Because a hero's job is never over, Harry. Why do you think Merlin always stayed locked away, only to be seen in the presence of King Arthur, following his defeat of Morgana?" Hermione asked gently.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Probably because he didn't want to face the backlash from the Wizarding community when he forced us into hiding, instead of allowing Morgana to make us a known and respected commonality in Muggle society."

Hermione frowned. They'd had this argument a dozen times, Harry never understanding what could have been so bad about the Muggles being made fully aware of the Wizarding presence amongst them, and it looked as though they were about to have it again. Before the intelligent witch could start in on him, though, a sudden hush fell over the ballroom, even the music coming to an abrupt halt. Harry turned to see the crowd behind him parting like a wave as a single entity cut through them with unfaltering steps. His eyes met black, searing pools that seemed to stare through him and his breath caught in his throat. The phantom came to stop barely a foot from him.

"Potter," The former Potions Master rumbled softly.

His voice, which carried over the silent crowd, seemed to draw Harry out of his stunned state. He reached forward carefully. "Snape? How…" His fingers touched the crisp fabric of the man's black robes, and he felt himself grow suddenly furious as he finally understood. "You stupid bastard!" Snape stepped forward, raising hands placatingly, but Harry shoved him back before fleeing into the crowd and away from the ballroom. When he reached the corridor, he could hear Snape's clicking heels behind him, and he slowed to a fast walk.

"Harry, wait," Snape called, his footsteps drawing closer.

Harry swiped angrily at the tears flowing from his eyes, but didn't look back. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say!"

"Let me explain, Potter."

This made Harry turn, and the flashing of his eyes stopped Snape in his tracks several feet away. "Why should I?" He demanded. "You're _dead_ remember? So why don't you just stay that way and leave me the hell alone!" He turned back, and made it a few steps before he felt a firm hand grip his upper arm, the same way it had in his first supposed dream. This time, however, he was ready for it, and swung around, pinning Snape to the corridor wall with a hand on his throat, his wand poised and ready at his side.

"Harry, please…you don't understand." Snape pleaded, his voice a soft whisper as he tried to speak past Harry's tight grip.

The Wizarding savior loosened his grip enough that the man could draw a breath, but was still immobilized against the wall. "You made me believe you were dead!" He shouted. "You forced me to grieve over you, made me think that everyone was right and that I was crazy for ever thinking there was a chance you survived!"

Snape's fingers clawed gently at Harry's hand, still struggling to draw enough air. "You had to grieve, Harry, just let me explain."

Harry's glare deepened, but he refused to relax his grip further. "Why?" He hissed angrily.

The former spy gasped against the hand on his throat. "It wasn't only my death which you refused to grieve, but that of everyone who was lost in the war. I'd been in hiding, still recovering and wondering if I should ever return to the Wizarding World when your friends, Granger and Weasley, found me." He was still struggling to speak, and Harry finally relented, relaxing his hand enough that it was little more than a caress of the man's pale skin. The Potions Master relaxed slightly. "They told me you'd gotten low; that they could all see you were on the verge of snapping with the yearly reminder of the lives lost coming round once again. They insisted they'd tried everything they could to get you to grieve, but that nothing could break the façade you'd wrapped around yourself." He paused and Harry flexed his fingers in warning. Snape winced, but continued. "They were afraid you'd wind up hurting someone, or yourself, once everything came to a head, and seemed to think I was the only one who could break you out of your stupor. I agreed to help, on the condition that they continue to pretend I was dead. The only way to make you face the demons you'd been hiding from was to force you to grieve my death, and with it all of the others."

Harry growled and slammed the man, who had moved forward a few inches back against the wall, his grip on the Potions Master's throat now threatening. "So you invaded my home, pretended you actually gave a _shit_ about me, and let me think your were dead out of some misguided attempt to help?!" He screamed. Hot, angry tears rolled unbidden down his cheeks. "I told you things I've never told anyone! Things I've never even told Ron and Hermione!" The young Auror was thinking now of the last visit, when he'd admitted that, given half a chance, he might have fallen in love with the cruel bastard. His voice grew cold as the fiery anger in his chest burned down to a hot spark. "Why are you here? Why not go on letting me believe you dead?" His arm grew suddenly weak and he slumped, leaning his forehead against the man's chest. Even after all this time, he realized Snape still towered over him. He gave a choked sob as his grief and frustration finally overwhelmed his fury. "Why couldn't you just stay dead?"

Snape let out a gentle sigh that ruffled Harry's hair as cool, calloused hands slid gently over his shoulders to lightly grip either side of his jaw. The Potions Master's stained fingers forced Harry to look up into dark, sympathetic eyes. "Because, Harry…" he brushed away a tear as it streaked over Harry's cheekbone. "Once I'd had the chance to get to know you, I couldn't stand the thought of always wondering what might have been."

The kiss was gentle and uncertain at first, the salt of Harry's tears mingling with the stale taste of tea and biscuits as Snape's tongue carefully coaxed the younger wizard deeper into the kiss. After several minutes, they pulled apart and merely stood in the corridor, holding one another close. When they'd stood there for what felt like an eternity, Harry frowned and muttered into Snape's heavily clothed shoulder.

"I'm going to kill Ron and Hermione."

A deep, rumbling chuckle was his only answer.


End file.
